


Illectatio

by maccom



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Dialogue, Headcanon, Introspection, M/M, One Shot, a study in temptation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 09:06:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18937801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maccom/pseuds/maccom
Summary: “There’s...something there that might interest you.”Diving into the bedroom scene - mostly introspection to flesh out my own headcanon.





	Illectatio

**Author's Note:**

> All dialogue is canon - I just filled in the gaps.

“There’s...something there that might interest you.”

Dorian’s heart skips a beat as he watches emotions play across the Inquisitor’s face. The elf’s confused, to be sure, but game to go along. He backs away, a look in his eyes that makes Dorian want to lick his lips, and then turns to leave.

Going back _downstairs_.

Dorian bites off a curse. The Inquisitor is nothing if not exacting in his routine. Every evening he does his rounds of Skyhold, starting with Solas in the rotunda below. Their lengthy chats - droning, boring things about spirits and old elvish customs that Dorian’s always compelled to intersperse with cries of, “Wrong!” - usually give Dorian enough time to look busy, as though he doesn’t spend every evening slouched in a chair. After meeting with Dorian the Inquisitor always makes his way upstairs to the notorious Spymaster, before descending to roam the grounds.

That’s what the Inquisitor is _supposed_ to do - but he’s turned on his heel and appears to be returning to his room.

Dorian hasn’t planned for this. He’d expected the elf to stick to his usual, giving Dorian plenty of time to make his way to the Inquisitor’s tower. It should have bolstered his confidence to watch Lavellan pass by a surprised Solas with an eager bounce in his step, but Dorian only grasps the railing over the rotunda tighter. For a brief, painful moment his brain constructs Lavellan’s likely response when he finds _nothing_ waiting in his room, but that’s too mortifying to dwell on. He has no choice.

_Kaffas_.

He hurries down the stairs muttering curses. Solas doesn’t even look at him; the apostate’s glaring at a mug of tea as though he hadn’t made the damn thing himself. Dorian skids to a halt before he reaches the door to the main hall - he can hear low voices on the other side. The Inquisitor and Varric talking about -

He grimaces. Hawke, of course. Dorian has given Varric a wide berth ever since Adamant. It isn’t that he’s uncomfortable with the dwarf’s grief, but Dorian isn’t sure what to say. He knows very little about the Champion of Kirkwall - he feels more relief that Lavellan lived than remorse Hawke is gone. It would not have been out of character for Lavellan to try to stay in the Fade; Hawke’s sacrifice had ultimately ensured the Inquisitor’s survival.

There had still been a moment - an eternity - when Dorian, Blackwall, and Sera had tumbled free of the Rift, turned around, and saw - nothing. No one had followed. Being back in Adamant with Lavellan not there had awoken entirely new emotions in Dorian. For that brief moment he’d been more alone than ever before. Desperation and _something else_ , something he hadn’t been ready to put words to, had almost convinced him to throw himself back into the Fade. The Inquisitor had come through before Dorian could do anything foolish; he’d found himself seated on the ground, caught somewhere between sobs and laughter as he watched Lavellan calm the remaining wardens. It had taken another of their group pointing out Hawke’s absence for Dorian to realize the Champion was missing from their happy reunion.

_At least it hadn’t been the Inquisitor._

What a damning thought, but Dorian knows he isn’t the only one thinking it. Every member of the Inquisition understands how reliant they are on Lavellan. It isn’t just the Rifts they need him for, not anymore. Dorian isn’t sure where the Inquisition would be without their warrior elf, but he doesn’t doubt it would look something much closer to the false future they’d stumbled into back in Redcliffe.

So Dorian has been avoiding the dwarf, lest any of his relief shine through. It isn’t fair, to trade one hero for another, but there is nothing he can say to Varric that won’t come laced with his own emotions.

The voices on the other side of the door die away; he hears Varric’s heavy chair as it’s dragged across the stone. Writing, no doubt. Dorian wishes him as much distraction as he can muster - better to find it in paper and pen than the bottom of a bottle.

Dorian opens the door and peaks his head into the main hall in time to catch the tail end of Lavellan’s jacket disappearing into his private quarters. Damn and blast. Dorian passes the courtiers and the ambassadors gathered in the hall at a brisk walk, grinning as nonchalantly as he can. They would never like him, but they were finally beginning to realize that their snide little comments had no effect on him. He’s been playing this game for years; nothing they can throw at him will be any worse than what he’s heard back home.

The Inquisition soldiers on the dias give him nods of acknowledgement, but let him enter Lavellan’s private staircase without questioning him. Dorian’s been up here once or twice - okay, _twice_ , he knows this exactly because he has both instances committed to memory - so it isn’t a shock for them to see him again. Those last visits had been remarkably chast by Dorian’s standards: kissing and heavy petting, without a single article of clothing strewn on the floor. He’d had the impression the Inquisitor was game to go further, but, Maker, Dorian had pulled back. At the time it seemed the wiser choice.

Now, climbing quietly up the enclosed staircase with his heart thumping in his ears, Dorian has trouble remembering _why_ it had been the wiser choice. He should have let it carry on to its natural conclusion. He should have done what he does best and make questionable - _enjoyable_ \- choices he inevitably comes to regret. He should have just slept with the Inquisitor, context be damned, and dealt with the aftermath.

But he hadn’t, had he? He’d pulled back - both times, what a saint - because he wanted something _more_ . Sex was good, and sex with the Inquisitor promised to be very good, but Dorian had made a mistake. It was no longer about wooing the Inquisitor because he could, no, it was about _being with Lavellan_. He’d take the sex if it was offered - because he wasn’t insane - but he wanted a _relationship_.

Most foolishly, he’d convinced himself Lavellan might want that, too.

It had been that fiasco with the amulet. Lavellan had an ever-climbing number of requests for his assistance draining what little free time the elf had, yet he’d journeyed to Val Royeaux for that damned amulet without even asking Dorian what it was. After all that work, and Dorian acting like an ass on top of it, the Inquisitor had stayed charming - even apologetic! - in the face of Dorian’s anger.

_I don’t care what they think about_ me. _I care what they think about_ us.

_Us,_ Dorian had said, his stomach flip-flopping on the word. He’d rushed past it afterwards, apologizing for his behaviour and even kissing Lavellan, but his mind repeated that one word.

There’d never been an “us” to care about, not like this. Everything before was a rush, a one night fling, a hasty stolen moment before the lights came on. The men Dorian had been with wouldn’t meet his eyes in daylight, let alone stand with him to have a conversation. Those hadn’t been _relationships_ , those had been _agreements_ \- and Dorian had always come out with the short end of the stick, hadn’t he? Whether or not the sex was good, he’d always been the one asking for _more_. In Tevinter it seemed a fool’s hope, but in Skyhold…

What were the chances? He’d followed after Alexius to save the world. Sex of any kind had been so low on his list of expectations that he’d flirted outrageously with everything on two legs, utterly convinced nothing would come of it.

And yet.

Dorian can’t remember who’d flirted first. He assumes he had, if only because that was his usual, but by the time they were preparing to seal the Breach it had been very mutual. Lavellan hadn’t run from him - had in fact returned in kind! In Haven it had been hard to tell if that had been normal behaviour for a southern elf or if the Herald had actually been interested, but their relationship had matured into something Dorian would gladly have called friendship.

He isn’t sure when those feelings changed. He can’t pinpoint the moment when his flirting turned serious - or when he began to catch Lavellan watching him out the corner of his eye. Most likely it had been on the road, or at camp, or surrounded by undead and demons. Most likely Dorian had made a quip, something off the cuff, and Lavellan had caught his eye. Most likely they’d shared their own secret grin, connected for an instant on a chaotic battlefield, and Dorian’s fate had been sealed.

He’d kissed the Inquisitor shortly after the mess with his father. The Inquisitor had kissed him back. Even better, he’d kept coming back for more. Unlike other men Lavellan had never looked at Dorian with disgust or shame. He’d never avoided him. He’d never denied the _something_ between them, even going so far as to look hurt the one time Dorian had tried to backpedal. As far as Dorian can tell, the Inquisitor has no reservations about pursuing their relationship.

And yet…

What if the Inquisitor _doesn’t_ feel the same? What if this is a distraction, a fling, a touch of fun before the end of the world? The man is stressed enough that Dorian couldn’t blame him for wanting a release, but Dorian wasn’t sure he could _be_ that release.

He’d gotten attached, damn it. He’d moved past the point where he could follow the Inquisitor to bed and rise the next morning, free of complications. Feelings were odd, uncomfortable things, and he’d gone and developed an abundance of them.

He’d given himself an ultimatum that morning. Josephine had delivered invitations to the ball at the Winter Palace, paired with stern instructions to dress well - clearly aimed towards Sera and Blackwall; she had more faith in Dorian than that - along with permission to mingle, keep their eyes and ears open for information, and, if the occasion arose, dance.

Dorian’s first thought had been dancing with the Inquisitor. His second thought had been the Inquisitor dancing with someone else, and that mental image had made him so furious he’d had to step back from his books lest he set them on fire.

Rather than risk political suicide for the whole Inquisition by flambéing whoever asked the Inquisitor to dance, Dorian had promised himself he’d make his move before the sun set. He’d had a half-formed plan, about surprising the Inquisitor in his room after his evening rounds, but he’s gone and spoiled that idea. He honestly hadn’t considered that the Inquisitor might break from tradition like a zealous puppy.

Nothing to do but face this head-on. Nothing to do but finish climbing this blasted quiet staircase, heart hammering louder with every step. He’s never felt like this before. He’s never been this close to - what? A real relationship? A commitment? Love, without strings? It’s like standing at the edge of a chasm, darkness at his feet. He could leap - take the risk, venture into the unknown - but fear has stopped him. Lavellan might not feel the same, and even if he did -

Even if he did, Dorian has his own reasons for holding back.

The door at the top of the stairs opens quietly at his touch. Lavellan’s room is an odd one; the staircase continues up past the doorway. Dorian looks out over the floor, nose level with the floorboards. Lavellan himself stands in the center of the room, facing away from the stairs. His hands are on his hips and his foot’s tapping the floor like an annoyed mother. He brings one hand up and runs it through his short white-blond hair and Dorian catches him in profile, silhouetted against the open window, and why is it so damned hard to _breath_?

Now or never. Move before Lavellan turns around and catches Dorian staring.

Fear of looking stupid has been a great motivator before, and it’s a wonderful motivator now. Dorian manages to glide up the last few steps, hand hesitating on the railing until the Inquisitor turns to face him. There’s no surprise on the elf’s handsome, tattooed face; no shock or disapproval. It’s remarkably hard to tell what he’s thinking, even after all this time.

Confidence, Pavus. How many men has he bedded? How many times has he made the first move? He knows he’s good at this - _everyone_ knows he’s good at this - but it’s never mattered quite so much.

“It’s all very nice, this flirting business.” He can’t look Lavellan in the eye, he’s too damn nervous. At least his voice comes out steady, lower than he’d intended but low can be sexy. “I am, however, not a nice man.”

There’s a grin on Lavellan’s face, a smug, “you’re full of shit, Pavus” smirk. The Inquisitor could call his bluff, but he waits for Dorian to continue.

Dorian’s not quite sure what he says next, something about chit chat and being more primal, but his feet have carried him across the room and there’s a look in the elf’s eyes that Dorian has to live up to, a hunger, an expectation, something far more raw than he’s seen before. He moves closer. “It’ll set tongues wagging of course…” and then he’s thinking about the Inquisitor’s tongue and that’s rather distracting. By the time he pulls his mind out of that fantasy he’s circling around Lavellan, coming up behind him. The elf is still, but not frozen - captivated, not cornered. “How bad does the Inquisitor want to be?” It’s not his cleverest pick-up line, but when the alternative is, “I might be in love with you, please tell me to stay,” he doesn’t terribly mind.

The Inquisitor’s still smiling a little half-smile. “I thought you’d never ask.” His shoulder bumps Dorian’s chest and it’s all Dorian can do not to spin him around.

“I like playing hard to get,” he whispers instead. He’s never played hard to get in his life, but it’s easier to lie than to say he’s scared. That talk can happen... _later_.

Lavellan turns around to face him. His hands rest on Dorian’s hips as the Inquisitor’s eyes roam up his body. Dorian waits, heart hammering in his throat. He knows what to say if Lavellan says no - Dorian’s said it before, made many a graceful exit with head held high - but Maker, he wants this to work. He wants those hands to pull him closer.

“And now?” Lavellan’s eyes meet his, and there’s understanding there, understanding and desire and Dorian can barely get the words out.

“I’m gotten,” he says. It’s not “I love you”, or “I want to be with you”, but it’s the most he’s ever given. That by itself is electrifying, and that bolt of energy gets Dorian moving. His hands are full of Lavellan’s shirt, grabbing, pulling, and then the Inquisitor’s tongue’s in his mouth and he’s having trouble thinking.

Dorian’s brain picks out little snippets, things to take note of: the lattice of scars along Lavellan’s torso and the way he stiffens when Dorian runs his fingers across them, his moan when Dorian nips where neck and shoulder meet, his hands tightening on Dorian’s arms as he grinds their hips together. He’ll come back to these snippets, next time. He’ll make sure to linger, to see what else he might entice. For now he has a more pressing need in mind, brought on by months of teasing and self-inflicted celibacy - but here’s Andraste’s Herald, ready to free him from his torment, and Dorian’s only too eager to fall to his knees. It’s supplication of a kind and he’s not above begging - he says “please” before the end, lets it escape in a gasp because he _wants_ this, wants it more than anything, and he’ll be good - he’ll be bad - he’ll be whatever Lavellan wants him to be, because his wrists are pinned to the bed and his eyes are on Lavellan’s and this - Maker, he does not deserve this.

Later - after - Lavellan tells him to stay, and Dorian always follows orders if they’re given in the bedroom. He’s too tired to make a fuss, too exhausted to think through the ramifications. Lavellan’s head’s on his shoulder and his marked hand’s entwined with Dorian’s and, for just a night, Dorian tells himself that’s enough.

* * *

Dorian wakes confused. The light isn’t right and the silence is almost deafening. The bed is far comfier than what he’s been using at Skyhold and there’s a weight across his chest, like he’s being held down…

He blinks. His gaze slides down the pale, freckled arm lying across him and up the torso beside him to stare at Lavellan’s sleeping face, the elf’s mouth slightly parted, hair tousled and lying haphazardly over his pillow.

Oh.

This is what it’s like, is it? He’s trying to take it in stride but there’s a wound he didn’t even know existed, something festering beneath the surface, the knowledge that this is new when it shouldn’t be. He should be able to wake in someone else’s bed without regret or fear, without sliding out the door half-dressed, without wondering which servant or slave will whisper the right words in the wrong ears and whoops - there goes everything he’s worked for.

It’s a novel experience and a heady one. Not all of the emotions are good, but the majority are, and that’s a first after a night like the one he’s just had. He isn’t sure what to do now, being the first to wake. Dorian-of-the-past would already be down the stairs, pants half-on,  hoping to make his way to his room without being seen. Dorian-of-now knows leaving would be a mistake. Instinct keeps him there, but it doesn’t help him fall back asleep.

That cursed thought repeats itself - _he doesn’t deserve this_ \- and he flings the covers aside, slips out from Lavellan’s arm, and rises as quietly as he can. He pads across the rugs to the balcony - the one _not_ overlooking the garden, thank you - and though the morning air is frigid on bare skin he steps into it without hesitation.

He’d meant what he said, the night before. _I am not a nice man._ Lavellan might have taken it as a joke, but Dorian can be cruel, and vindictive, and there is a frightfully petty streak in him that he is wont to give into more often than not. He’d killed men long before joining the Inquisition.

So then, to take a stab at the heart of it, do bad men deserve happiness? Of course they do, what a silly question. Dorian doesn’t begrudge anyone their own moment of joy, provided it hurts no one else. If there was anything he could do to brighten Alexius’s existence, even now, he’d have done it. He rather hopes the camps of Venatori they come across start their mornings with the best breakfast blood magic can get them, because if they weren’t rising with a smile then why even bother?

If bad men are worthy of happiness, then logic dictates that he too should be able to claim it. The issue at play, the complication in the plan, the _wrench_ , it that Dorian’s happiness is bound to the form of Thedas’s saviour. What right does he have to distract the Herald of Andraste? Politics and history already muddle the lines, but Lavellan is so inherently _good_. Why complicate a man’s already-complicated life with the baggage Dorian drags along with him?

He’s managed to convince the world he means a lot to himself - more than any other, in fact - but it’s a neatly-built facade that feels only too ready to crumble. _Yes_ , he has talent, _yes_ , he has brains, _yes_ , he even has all the good fortune and favour an altus could wish for - but at his _core_ something did not come out of the mold as it should. As loath as he is to think the words “wrong”, “mistake”, or “flawed” in relation to his own person, his parents had certainly aimed them at him often enough. How great can Dorian possibly be when his own father turned to blood magic to “fix” him?

Dorian’s hands find the cold stone balcony railing and _grip_. His bare feet are freezing and it would only take an ounce of power to warm himself but he doesn’t bother - that’s part of the problem, isn’t it? A little more energy, a little more thought, a little more _consideration_ \- if Dorian would only care for himself! For the legacy he’s throwing away! But he’s done the opposite - he’s toyed with risks, ventured too close to the flame, made _questionable choices_ because, with all his being, he believes he deserves it. Should everything blow up in his face, ah, well - bound to happen eventually. He’s had a good run, and it’s honestly a miracle he’s made it this far.

Lavellan doesn’t know. Oh, he must have an inkling. He’d been in Redcliffe’s tavern and listened to Dorian’s story, but he’s never asked what Dorian had done between fleeing his father and learning about the Venatori. Lavellan must have assumed there’d been no time between the two - as though Alexius had planned his whole plot as a pleasant distraction from Dorian’s own self-loathing. _Ready to drink yourself into a stupor? Why not tramp through the southern countryside instead! A million ways to die and not a drop of wine!_

The months - years? - after his confrontation with his father are something of a blur to Dorian. He knows there were men, and drinks, and more nights in strange beds than out of them, but if asked to give hard numbers Dorian cannot. His friend Maevaris had picked him up once, with a lecture and a private bed his only rewards, but he’d slipped away from her just as quickly as he’d slipped away from his parents.

Sobriety hurt. _Thinking_ hurt. Far better to push himself down the path of destruction to whatever glorious end awaited him. Far better to go out blazing than to gutter and die at the hands of the sad, sorry fate his parents desired. He’d told Lavellan he’d have been screaming on the inside, but Dorian couldn’t imagine a future like that where he’d ever go quietly.

Felix had found him after the rest had stopped looking. Felix, sick and dying far before his time, had dragged Dorian out of some bathhouse with his ears red as roses, had dragged him despite his protests. Dorian had been in a state of undress - and heavy intoxication - but he’d pulled himself together as best he could because, surprisingly, he was still capable of shame. _Felix_ should not see him in that condition. _Felix_ should not witness his downfall. He’d tried to be presentable - dapper, if dead inside - but Felix had only needed two words to send every thought and concern about _presentation_ fleeing from Dorian’s drink-addled brain.

_Time magic._

Like a key in a lock, things had clicked back into place. He couldn’t stand aside and let this happen - not to Alexius, certainly not to poor Felix, definitely not to the world. However difficult Thedas was, he rather liked living in it. Dorian had arranged passage through Nevarra the very next day, hoping desperately that his hangover would vanish before he reached the coast.

The hangover had. The shakes took a while longer.

He’d thrown himself back into theorycrafting and ruminations and research, spending his journey attempting to deduce what Alexius had done and why. It all had a purpose, of course, but it had the happy bonus whereby it prevented him from considering how big a shit he truly was. If he had to choose between advanced algebraic formulae touching on Fade-theory for spellcasting, and his own self-worth, _well_. That was a no-brainer - one led to answers about the world, while the other made him want to self-Immolate.

Now he’s here, standing naked on the Inquisitor’s balcony, wanting desperately to both vanish and to fall back into bed. He doesn’t think it’s all been a mistake because it feels so damn different this time, and if it doesn’t mean the same to the Inquisitor than Dorian’s just done a very foolish thing. He won’t know without asking but asking takes a certain kind of courage he isn’t sure he can muster just now.

It’s all at once beautiful and preposterous - Dorian could take this and grasp it - but that nagging voice continues to hold him back.

Does he deserve _love_?

He returns to the warmth of the bedroom and stands in the center, slowly turning, eyes trailing over furniture without really _seeing_. His mind’s replaying a familiar memory, stuck in a nightmare far more contained than what they’d breached in Adamant. He sees his father, taller and more imposing than in life, and the fury in his face has turned him cold as marble. Dorian can sense the words coming - words he never thought he’d hear, words he knew he’d pushed towards but family means _something_ , doesn’t it? He’s the only child and everything’s always been on his shoulders and maybe he _shouldn’t_ have taken that for granted but this _should never have been a possibility._

_You are no son of mine_.

He didn’t realize it could hurt so much.

He shakes his head, stirs the memories, forces fists to loosen. Here is not there. His father is far, far away, and Lavellan is close enough to touch. Dorian may not be sure that the Inquisitor offers anything more than his company in bed, but this feels _different_. It feels like it _means something_ , and Dorian can’t decide if he wants to give in to the unknown or flee back to familiarity. Giving in is a risk to his heart but leaving would hurt even more. He’s out of his comfort zone; he doesn't know the next step in this dance, doesn’t have a response ready should this fall apart. He’s working on the words to say if this goes sour - how to gracefully exit the Inquisition without once blaming the Inquisitor - when he hears a sigh behind him.

The Inquisitor is awake.

Dorian keeps his back to the bed, feigns great interest in the decor. His heart beats at a speed he’s surprised his chest can contain and his mouth may as well have been the Western Approach. What he wouldn’t give for a little time magic of his own! He isn’t ready for this - for once he doesn’t have the words. Any moment now Lavellan’s going to ask him to leave, tell him he had a lovely time but please, dear Pavus, do not grow attached - it was merely a way to pass the evening.

He’s heard that and worse before. He knows how to make his exit.

_Kaffas_ , no. _No_. Not again.

He talks to fill the silence, talks before Lavellan can ask him to leave. Nonsense about liking the elf’s quarters - he likes the _potential_ \- and a dig at the Inquisitor’s taste. Well done, Pavus, wonderful foreplay. He walks around the bed and sits on the edge but can’t bring himself to turn around. He isn’t sure what he’ll see and it’s easier not to look.

“You seem a little - distracted.”

Dorian deflects, badly. Lavellan persists. He hasn’t been kicked out - a good sign - but now they’re talking about his _feelings_ and he wishes a Rift would manifest right over his head and swallow him whole.

If the Fade hears, it does not care. Alas.

“I’m...curious where this goes, you and I.” Breath, Pavus. Why is that suddenly so hard? “We’ve had our bit of fun - perfectly reasonable to get on with the business of killing Archdemons and such.” He has no idea what his face is doing, but his voice is light. Trivial. _Would you like a side of relationship with that mage you ordered, or was the free sample not to your liking?_

“Tell me what you want.”

Horror of horrors, the Inquisitor’s thrown it back at him! Dorian glances at Lavellan but the elf is unreadable. He’s not upset but he’s not overjoyed; whatever his expression is, it’s not helping. The words stick in Dorian’s throat. What _does_ he want?

He wants every morning to be this way - limbs tangled together, hair strewn across a pillow, the world kept at bay. He wants the simplicity he’s seen others grasp - he wants trust, and camaraderie, and a friendship so complete it’s hard to tell where one starts and the other begins. He isn’t thinking about temptation, or fear, or even his father - he’s thinking about love and the handsome elf beside him. As much as he still wishes he could vanish into the Fade, if they hadn’t been talking about _feelings_ there is nowhere else Dorian would rather be.

Honesty, then. If not now, never.

“I like you.” The words don’t bubble like water over rocks - they’re slow, pulled from him, tugged right from the heart. “More than I should. More than would be wise.” Lavellan hasn’t laughed, but he’s still waiting for more. “We end it here, I walk away.” Right off the balcony, Maker take him. “I won’t be pleased, but I’d rather now than later. Later might be...dangerous.”

Lavellan frowns, the first indication he isn’t happy. “Why dangerous?”

This elf and his questions! Dorian’s baring his soul and its still not enough! He closes his eyes. What was it he’d overheard Varric say? Something about being most alive when losing one’s pants? Well, he’d lost his already - what more was one heart? “Walking away...might be harder then.” _Might be_ , he says, as though he has any doubt. It hurts to imagine.

Lavellan’s rough hand finds his, curls between his fingers. Dorian opens his eyes, stares at their hands, blinks stupidly as he holds on. Use _words_ , elf. Use _words_ and put him out of his misery before…

“I want more than just fun, Dorian.”

It’s...fireworks, inside his head and his belly. He wants to laugh, to cry, to kiss this silly, wonderful elf. He had fewer emotions tumbling through the Fade! He needs to speak, to explain what this means, but the words tangle and if he opens his mouth he knows he’ll sound like Cole.

_Wanting, wishing, terrified..._

“Speechless, I see.” Humour flavours the Inquisitor’s voice, low and dark and _kaffas_ , Pavus, get on with it. Say anything. He camped in Redcliffe’s hills for two weeks, on his own with nary a proper bath in sight - if he can survive _that_ , he can survive this.

“I was...expecting something different.” He meets the Inquisitor’s eyes and the world doesn’t end - the elf’s smiling, listening, eager. The words come easier, seeing that smile. “Where I come from, anything between two men...it’s about pleasure. It’s accepted, but taken no further.” “Accepted” isn’t at all the right word, but now is not the time. He can explain - _later_. “You learn not to hope for more. You’d be foolish to.”

He’s still giving the Inquisitor an out, whether he means to or not. One last chance to break free from the Tevinter mage - one last chance to end this, knowing that if they go any further Dorian’s in over his head. The chasm is at his feet again - but it’s not terrifying and empty, it’s full of something he thinks he wants, something that would better him. Something that others have had the courage to leap into, and he wants to take that risk. Like that Chantry verse - how does it go?

_Here lies the abyss..._

Lavellan’s still smiling, though he knows Dorian’s gone off on his own train of thought. There’s sympathy in the elf’s smile. He _knows_ , and, knowing, is going to step forward because Dorian can’t. “So let’s be foolish.”

Just say yes, idiot. _Just say yes._ _Leap_. “Hard habit to break.”

“I’m good at breaking things.”

Dorian snorts. “Hopefully not everything.” His retort could be innuendo, but it’s his heart he’s thinking about, his heart that he’s been holding so close for so long. He’s been careful, overly protective maybe, but -

_Let us be foolish._

_Us_ , the elf said. Lavellan and Pavus. Dorian’s last reservations are punctured, popped, gone. The facade he’s built comes down much easier than it went up, and it’s a relief - joy, not fear. Love, not shame.

What a sap he’s turning into. This must be what Cassandra sees in those damn books.

He’s not crying, not really, but it’s hard to see Lavellan through the damp in his eyes. He mumbles a question - turns the word "inquisit" into a verb to make the Chantry mothers blush - and Lavellan’s already pulling him into an embrace, arms wrapped around him, mouth meeting his, cutting off whatever nonsense he’s blabbering as they fall back into bed.

Dorian deserves this.


End file.
